There's Nothing Wrong With Me
by wetrustno1
Summary: "There's nothing wrong with me" Such a simple sentence, and yet even Sherlock wasn't sure how much he believed it. What was going on as he and John sat in front of the fire in Hounds Of Baskerville.


Title: There's Nothing Wrong With Me

"There's nothing wrong with _me_" Such a simple sentence, and yet even Sherlock wasn't sure how much he believed it. What was going on as he and John sat in front of the fire in Hounds Of Baskerville.

I didn't understand. My fingers drummed along the chair arm automatically, but the rhythm was not comforting, no matter how quickly I let them play along the dark wood.

Focus, Sherlock, focus.

This was ridiculous.

PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER.

I slammed my eyelids shut, hoping that the force would somehow dislodge this alarming seed of fear which I could feel growing ever more quickly in my chest. I could feel it grow stronger with each breath, a parasite of uncertainty and fear which clawed into my very soul and refused to let go. I opened my eyes sharply. What was this?

This was not usual.

In fact this was unusual, it was the most unusual, it was wrong and strange and I couldn't for the life of me concentrate on a thing John was saying.

Since when could I not concentrate?

CONCENTRATE.

My drumming fingers turned to fists, pulsing on the chair. Nails dug into my hands but I didn't care. Pain was alright. Pain was an adequate source of fear, pain was concrete. Pain was irrelevant.

Focus on the task at hand.

John.

Listen to John.

I couldn't.

"I saw it.. too." The words explode out of nowhere, harsh, forced, but come out reeking of nothing but the fear which is still shredding away at my lungs. I inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Each breath is too fast, and I find this juggling of breath and listening to John to become extremely difficult.

"What?" He is looking at me as though I have just dropped out of the sky, and I can only imagine what my own face: pale and sweating in the flickering light, must look like to him.

"I saw it too, John." I repeat, gulping down the air which I have temporarily forgotten to breathe. The fire is frightening now, and I try to avert my gaze, but cannot bring myself to look at John either.

"Just... just a minute. You saw what?" His words are careful, as usual. They are always so careful around me. Not condescending, but as though he is afraid I might blow up at the touch of a hand. He's probably right. I know he's right. God I hate that carefulness. Why can't I just control myself?

I snap back to the question. The question dammit.

FOCUS.

"A hound. Out there. In the hollow. A _gigantic _hound.." I begin to physically shake simply speaking the words, and can feel even more of that awful hatred pool up around me, saturating the room. You are a fool. You can't be _afraid_. Don't be so weak.

"Um." John is trying to process my words, and clearly does not know how to respond. Even in this agitated state I can register how uncharacteristic my fearful words are, but I don't care.

John pauses, searching for the right words. "Sherlock, we have to be rational.. about this.. okay.. And _you, _of all people can't just.." He closes his eyes, breathing deeply. "Let's just stick to what we know, yes? Stick to the facts."

Right, the facts. But this.. this..

What I saw.

This defies the facts, and how do I chose between what I know to be true, and what I know to have seen, seen with my own eyes, with my own-

"Once you've ruled out the impossible, whatever's left, no matter how improbably, must be true."

John looks up. "What does that mean?"

I haven't the faintest idea.

I reach for the whiskey beside my chair, aching for the burn I will feel when it goes down, anything to set fire to this godawful _fear _inside me.

I have to get it out.

Get it out.

Get it out NOW.

My fingers tremble on the crystal, and I look with disbelief. The trembling glass resting in a hand none other than my own. The fearful creature inside me roars, and the glass shakes even more. I almost laugh, but it comes out raw. "Look at me I'm afraid, John. Afraid." The almost laugh surfaces again, but still stabs at my throat. I force the glass to my face, chugging the largest sip I can muster, forcing my eyes shut to block out the hard line of John's mouth across from me. I don't care at this point. What is this? Why am I blubbering like some stupid schoolgirl over a fucking _dog. _It's just a dog. A bloody fucking dog, and here I am shaking in my shoes, hiding out like some weak, stupid, stupid _child_.

What am I?

Does this make me a _freak. _Oh that would make Anderson's day, wouldn't it? Sherlock Holmes, the freak sociopath finally cracks down under all the pressure because of a pathetic little mutt..

"Sherlock-"

This is exactly what is wrong with _caring. _With _feelings _and _emotional neediness. _This is where it gets you. Fear.

Fear is for the weak, and I have no place for weakness.

I look back at my glass, still shocked and yet almost transfixed by its shuddering. "I've always been able to keep myself distant..." I take a another drink, deep and long and oh the burn is so good, so right. This is real. This is power. This pain? This is the step toward strength. "..divorce myself from _feelings. _But you see, the body's betraying me. Interesting, yes? Emotions. Grease on the lens, the fly in the ointment-"

"Alright, yes." John interrupts, and is looking more wary by the moment. "Take it easy, you've been pretty wired.. lately, you know you have. I think.. you just went out there, and got yourself a bit worked up-"

"Worked up?" The words practically beg to be coddled, and through my disorientation can still feel the beginning of more anger.

"It was dark and scary-"

"Me?" My brain finally wraps around where this is going. Me. John thinks this is all about _me._ "There's nothing wrong with _me._"

No.

No no no no no there is NOTHING wrong with ME.

I'm fine.

I'm fine.

It's everyone else.

It can't be me.

This.. whatever is wrong, right now, it's not because of ME. It's because there's something going on OUT THERE, and I have to solve it. Pinpoint the cause and you erase the symptoms.

My breathing is growing more labored my the moment, yet the pointless energy wasted on something are boring as _breathing _doesn't seem worth it.

Doesn't matter. It's vital. I choke down more breaths, mind still stumbling for the first time over this horrible new grain of an idea which is already racing through me faster than I can control it. What if there is something wrong with me? Not just now, not just this, but critically, fundamentally _wrong _with me. The sudden image of a body, broken on the cold earth. A shattered mirror, pieces laying lost in the street. Not everything can be fixed. Some things are just too mangled. Everyone thinks I'm insane. Maybe I am. Maybe all this... this endless barrage of bloodshed which I feed off of is because there is something _wrong_ with me. A sickness. They think I solve these cases because I "get off on it" and they aren't entirely wrong. It comforts me, soothes some dull ache I cannot place, and maybe its because my sick mind is just too horribly screwed up to be able to cope with anything in the whole wide world without it. Donnovan's theories. About how one day, I will be the one carted off because it was _my _hand that silenced the scream of the bloody girl in the street, _my _voice that cut off her cries, _my _gun which finally slashed away the string which held her to life.. There are times I don't know where I go. Times I don't know my own name after the needle under the bed clicks into my arm and I feel the ecstatic _liberation _hit me like a wave. What if I don't play on the side of the angels? What if I am in fact the reason those bodies pile up in the streets, blood drenching the pavement, screams muffled by the gore which-

"SHERLOCK-"

"THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH ME DO YOU UNDERSTAND?" The entire restaurant has gone silent, yet I can still hear my own blood hammering too quickly through my veins, as though screaming in protest to my silent words. _It's not me. It's not. _John's face is stoic, and yet I can still sense the lingering undertones of fear and pity which lay underneath. I'll prove him wrong. Prove them all wrong.

"You want to prove it yes?"

The anger, the self-loathing- it all comes back with a vengeance, and I am going to silence it now. My eyes snap onto the two people across from us and I begin to dissect them. Lay them out onto the floor for John to see, to prove that I'm fine, because if I wasn't fine, I wouldn't be able to do this right now but I can so I'm obviously fine and I don't need anyone's help there's NOTHING WRONG WITH ME AND IF EVERYONE WOULD JUST STOP WHISPERING BEHIND MY BACK. I can't do it. Can't take this anymore. For people to think I don't have a soul to think that I'm just some kind of robotic who has no conscience and watches the world burn for the hell of it. Well fine, let them think that way but it's not true, ITS NOT TRUE. I continue with my dissection of the couple, splattering their secrets out for John to see. Proof. It's all proof. This is what I do. I'm fine. fine fine fine fine ! I can't handle John's occasional questions, so I plow over them, smashing them into the ground with my big words, not caring about the hurt I am or am about to cause. I don't even remember what i'm saying, my mouth vomiting out the words faster than i can even comprehend them, all that matters is that ".. so you see, I'm fine, couldn't be better, so just leave me ALONE." I stop, chest rising and falling heavily with the sudden exertion, the monster inside screeching applause, lavishing his sweet words of praise onto me for my cruelty- a master applauding his apprentice. John is looking nonplussed, but I know him too well. Far to well. The hurt is there, lingering under the smooth facade. The hurt which I see in his eyes almost every time I open my mouth. And I hate myself for it. I see that same hurt in Molly, in Mrs. Hudson, in Irene. I see it every time I let my hating words destroy the people around me, leaving a trail of broken hearts and unsaid tears which I do not have the bravery to accept.

"Okay." His words are brisk. "Okay. Well why would you listen to me? I'm just your friend."

"I don't have _friends_" The words are jagged, angry, designed to hurt. They hurt me too as soon as I have spoken them, but it's too late, and now its too late to apologize. I never apologize.

"Yeah." He looks directly at me, eyes piercing my own, and for the first time I feel that I have lost the upper hand. That I have completely missed the mark and we both know it.

"I wonder why."

He stands, and although it remains silent, I can still feel the unsaid waves of anger and sorrow radiate from him. He leaves without another word, and I cannot help but feel certain that this is all, entirely, completely, because of something wrong with _me_.

*Any thoughts? I just re-watched Baskerville tonight, and wanted a little internal monologue action. :)


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